Where A Golf Nut Is King

Several Arabs wearing fezes and djellabas neatly spread out a dozen pairs of golf shoes from which His Majesty would make a selection. They also spread out half a dozen sweaters in cellophane wrappers for the same purpose.

A number of men with briefcases stood by, obviously hoping to conduct some business between swings. Some diplomats, the Moroccan chief of world affairs and an official of the police were there, as were the head of the paratroopers and a very good Moroccan amateur. These last three would play with Hassan. Claude would walk around and give a tip now and then.

Suddenly something dawned on me.

"Listen, uh, Claude," I said. "How do we greet His Majesty? I mean, I know I don't say, 'Hi, King! How's your mom and them?' Do I kneel or what?"

Claude said, "He's quite a fellow. A young man. Tough. Well educated. Speaks a lot of languages."

"So what do I do?"

Claude said, "He's a king, you know. No mistake about who the king is."

"Yeh, I know," I said. "So?"

"You're an American," Claude said.

"Yeah, right."